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Maybe I am this person.
Maybe I’m fighting him with everything in me because I refuse to admit that being kidnapped turns me on. That I’m wet again from the memory of him grabbing me. To the needle he punctured my skin with.
Being used and ordered around and fed like I’m some sort of pet makes me feel loved and ashamed. So ashamed.
So needy.
My mind wanders, dire to find explanations for these things I’m feeling.
I told Marcus I was in love with the man I’ve come to know back home. Stern yet kind. Strong and gentle.
He called me out on my lie.
Am I lying? Had I seen a different version of him and I’m in some sort of denial?
I nibble on the inside of my cheek, considering it. Letting the memories flood.
Marcus sat in his study that night. When he was just Rylan’s hot dad and I was seventeen.
In the dimly lit room, his frame was bathed in the amber glow of the lamp on his antique, solid oak desk. The toned muscles of his biceps flexed beneath his gray T-shirt every time he flipped a page in the psychiatry book in front of him. His brow furrowed in concentration. His hair was messy as if he raked his hand through it over and over.
He looked sexy. Adorable.
Incredibly forbidden.
Rylan had left the house earlier to go to the movies with some kids from school. I’d had to push her out the door, that was how much she hadn’t wanted to leave me here by myself. But I did, because she’d been obsessed with seeing Milo. It took some effort after throwing up so much. I’d done it anyway. For her.
Unless it was one of her hacker gatherings, she hardly ever left me behind. Except today, I’d fought harder. It wasn’t fair that she’d miss out on the new Conjuring movie because I ate something bad and threw up ten minutes before our ride—freaking Milo—arrived.
So, there I was, leaning on the doorframe and watching Marcus in his study for what seemed like hours. The rare opportunity to ogle him presented itself wrapped in a neat little bow, and I couldn’t raise my voice to tell him I’m leaving.
Like the love-sick creep I was, I hovered there in my tattered jeans and a black hoodie I pulled over my ponytail. My feet were planted in place, my heart fluttering in my chest.
Then my dry throat had to go and ruin everything for me. It itched and prickled, and my cough was inevitable.
At the sound, Marcus’s head snapped up. His entire focus was trained on me instead of the book he’d been so engrossed in seconds ago.
Then his concentration transformed into concern.
“Leighton.” He unfolded himself from his leather office chair, all six-foot-three of him. His long fingers curled on the top of the desk like he wanted to do something but held back. “What’s wrong? Are you two back already? I heard you leave only minutes ago. Is Rylan okay? Are you?”
Being a single father couldn’t have been an easy task. Especially for a loner like him.
His parents lived in Colorado. He had colleagues for friends. I hadn’t seen a woman in here for years. He had no one to lean on for support other than himself.
Through it all, he managed to do an amazing job raising Ry. He’d balanced setting her boundaries while giving her enough rope to explore. Most importantly, he tried. He really loved her.
Which was why I felt bad for the worry etched on his face. I got over the tingling in my core and answered as fast as my sore throat allowed me.
“Ry’s fine.” Fucking cough. “She’s not back. I never left. I, uh, actually, came to tell you I should probably get going.”
One moment, Marcus stood behind his desk. The next, he towered over me. He flattened a hand on the doorframe next to my head, keeping an appropriate distance as he bent to examine my face. I could’ve walked back into the hallway.
I didn’t.
The way he sucked the air out of the room scared the living fuck out of me. It hypnotized me.
“You two didn’t argue or something,” he surmised after looking deep into my soul.
